Can You Deny Us the Triumph in Store?
by ProtoChan
Summary: The lifeblood of Belle's very existence is the opera. Since her mother introduced it to her at five years old, she's loved it with all her heart. Now, as a grown woman with dreams of writing the Paris Opera House's next great success and a magnum opus nearing its completion, she'll need to contend with obstacles just as dramatic as the work of fiction she pens. POTO AU with twists!


**"Can You Deny Us the Triumph in Store?" (Rumbelle)**

**Summary: The lifeblood of Belle's very existence is the opera. Since her mother introduced it to her at five years old, she's loved it with all her heart. Now, as a grown woman with dreams of writing the Paris Opera House's next great success and a magnum opus nearing its completion, she'll need to contend with obstacles almost more dramatic than the work of fiction she pens. Things take a turn when two men take an interest in her work, and suddenly, Belle finds herself on a journey of trust, forgiveness, and perhaps even love. **

**A/N: Hi! This is my first ever Rumbelle fic - happy to be here with all you lovely folks!**

**I started this idea from the jumping off point of "Could a Rumbelle 'Phantom of the Opera' AU work in a scenario where Rumple was Raoul?" As a longtime Phantom of the Opera fan (All versions), I feel like over the years, I've grown to not only like, but really respect and admire the Christine/Raoul pairing and that's something I wanted to play around with here. And what I came up with ended up feeling pretty true to Rumple and Belle's characters as well as a fun mix of OUAT, Beauty and the Beast, and of course, The Phantom of the Opera, all alongside a different, more shorthand-based writing style that I'm really excited to try out here. I hope you feel the same about it too!**

**Tagging mrs-stiltskin! If you want to be tagged in future installments as well, please let me know!**

()()()()()()()()()()

**CHAPTER ONE: MELODIE DE PARIS**

The year 1890 exists within an age of discoveries, an epoch that sheds light on all manners of beauty. From walks of human life across the world's surface, possibilities of exactly what people can create with their hands, minds, and hearts are explored in a way they've never been before. And of all the lands that this age touches, few places capture the modern ideals of this time better than the city of lights. Paris is experiencing a renaissance of art, music, vibrancy, and knowledge, and the epitome of the city's progress and lust for life and love is the Paris Opera House. What lays inside the doors of this majestic theatre is a bustling community in itself with all manner of singers, dancers, designers of every kind, stagehands, business people, and others who rush across halls, stages, and balconies as they go about living their lives.

It is in this palace of music - where the creative people of Paris come to make magic a reality - a woman, underestimated in all that she does, but exceptional in what she brings life into spends her days.

Her name is Belle Ébréché.

Belle Ébréché, a woman of twenty-three years, is a dancer at the Paris Opera House. For hours upon hours every day, whether at the behest of an audience or not, she and ten other girls work their feet to the bone as they further strive to perfect their craft. However, her dream is not fulfilled - not completely in any event. While talented on her feet, definitely enough to earn her keep in the ballet, her ambitions don't lie with her toes to the floor of a stage. Instead, they reside with a quill that's as much a part of her body as her lungs to a sheet of parchment...for you see, Belle wishes to write an opera.

Belle's love of the opera began relatively early, though not through her eventual chosen avenue of expression itself at first. No, the seeds of her love of stories and storytelling were originally planted by her mother, Colette. Night after night starting from her first evening wails, Belle was sent off to the realm of dreams with passages from books that soothed and lulled her to sleep just as well as the very cradle that held her form. And as she grew, Belle's love of books created an equal love for the imaginations of men and women and their many artistic achievements. Finally, when she was five, as if the heavens themselves arranged it to forever cement that love, Belle was introduced to something that would forever change her life - The Opera.

While Belle had always loved stories, operas were stories taken to a new level. They were windows to lives she could never dream of that not only painted vivid visions in her mind of stories, characters, and lines, but allowed those visions to exist in a way even her imagination couldn't accomplish. As Belle took in all the opera had to offer, she was entranced by the sets that took her to foreign lands, the sweeping tales of romance, history, and adventure, and the music that made her heart swell and unlock emotions never before known to her. By the time her first opera, "Béatrice et Bénédict" was through, Belle knew she wanted nothing more in life than to be a part of the experience that opened her world to new possibilities.

However, such happiness, as happiness tends to be, was too good to last. After two years of bi-annual trips to the opera, following the death of the very source of that happiness, they stopped. Collette's passing left Belle crushed and while grief overtook most of her headspace, her determination to become part of the opera was still as present as ever. Now, it was her deepest wish - no, more than that. Now, it was her destiny, one Belle knew her mother would want for her.

But Belle found herself quite alone in that mindset.

As her convictions and desires for a life in the opera grew ever stronger, her father, Maurice's patience for her passions only weakened. In truth, complications between Maurice and Belle weren't uncommon even when Colette was still alive, but with a mother and a wife taken from them, a crucial part of their bond went with her.

And part of that waning bond was a disregard for Belle's passion for the arts, which he deemed as 'flights of fantasy.' Maurice was never won over by operas to begin with, but grief turned his indifference into a means to mock his daughter. For years, that misery is how they went about their days, and while Maurice had fully succumbed to feelings of bitterness, Belle fought them off in the name of achieving her life's purpose.

But even the strongest of resolves could grow weary under the constant duress of those without faith in them. Eventually, after years of enduring such constant belittling, Belle understood that her only hope for peace and a true chance at following her dream was to leave home. So, with only some scant essentials and a few mementos of her mother, Belle took off for where she knew her calling would be: The Paris Opera House.

The night Belle arrived at the Opera House was cold and damp, the product of a miserable storm. With wet clothes and shoes that plopped against the charcoal-colored rain, she stepped towards the building. It was only than a feeling of unease set in Belle's heart. Apart from a love of opera, she had no experience in performance - just a few pages of ideas for operas.

What would The Paris Opera House of all places want with her?

Had she made a mistake running from home?

Struck by fear, Belle drifted towards a curb by the eastern side of the building, huddling her shoulders close to her for the first time since the rain fell, but for reasons she knew had nothing to do with the trickling water. She sat down on the curb and looked ahead at the dream that was now so close to her, but quite possibly impossible to ask for.

As Belle started shaking in fear, a door opened, glowing Belle and the curb she sat on with a hue of oak. And from out of that door stepped a girl, no older than Belle, holding a bag of what looked to be garbage as she looked towards a disposal bin not far from where Belle sat. The girl wore a rose-colored dress and upon seeing Belle, concern overtook her features.

She came over to Belle, and offered her hand, introducing herself as Ruby. With a gentleness Belle hadn't truly felt since she last saw her mother, Ruby asked what she was doing in the rain. Upon hearing Belle's story, Ruby took Belle's shoulder into her hand and invited her inside The Opera House, saying that she would take care of her.

And take care of her is exactly what Ruby did.

Ruby was a young dancer-in-training, and her grandmother Madame Lucas, a dance instructor. And she just happened to know of an opening that needed filling for another new dancer.

It was late at night when Belle met Madame Lucas. While originally grouchy at the prospect of a spontaneous visitor, Madame Lucas quickly came around upon seeing Belle's fragile and wet form, welcoming her into the room where the ballet dancers slept. The following morning, after Belle had the chance to explain what brought her to the Paris Opera House, Madame Lucas invited her to train alongside Ruby and the other dancers. There, she would live, train, and work under her care. Madame Lucas warned Belle that it would be hard work, but it seemed that even her attempts to appear tough on Belle seemed to only be a facade, she seemed to immediately know that Belle would be up to the challenge.

And Belle, to this day, makes her living at The Paris Opera House, practicing and performing alongside Ruby and some of Paris' finest dancers, a population that now includes them. Belle and the others work Madame Lucas' regimen as if it were second nature. And through years upon years spent perfecting her craft and furthering her studies, she's grown far more experienced in the ways of The Opera House. She now knows what it's like to work from dawn to dusk and retire for the evening with barely the ability to speak. She now knows what it's like to repeat the same moves dozens upon dozens of times and still see Madame Lucas unsatisfied. She now knows what it's like to wait in anticipation of the latest reviews of the newest operas, understanding that her very way of life could be on the line should things go sour.

But Belle still loves all things having to do with the opera. In fact, she loves it even more than she did when she first heard those opening orchestral notes all those years ago.

Now though, her dream is more focused. She's not about to give up her work in the ballet so soon, but Belle knows her destiny is to not dance in operas, but to pen them.

She's the only one who thinks so either. Ruby and Madame Lucas know she's talented, too. Whether intentional or not, Belle's made it rather easy for them to follow her work. They hear her comment on the stories and compositions of the operas they perform with the intelligence of Paris' most talented writers. It's impossible for either of them to not notice Belle stay up well past curfew most every night scribbling and tossing away pages of filled sheets of music and scripts, and ones that are already pretty good at that. The way Belle hums invisible notes only to excuse herself from dinner and rush to write them down in one of her notebooks is predictable to the point of mundanity.

And she's only getting better.

Lately, fewer and fewer pieces of paper are being thrown away. Complete lyrics and melodies are being muttered, hummed, and sung under Belle's breath. Story threads are finally starting to come together and make sense. One night, Madame Lucas sneaks a peek at the notebook Belle's been frequenting the most lately as an excited Ruby - who may or may not have told her where it was - waits just outside for details.

Yes, Belle's shaping up to be quite the talented composer - a stand out creator of her era.

However, nothing's that simple.

No matter the year nor all the undiscovered wonders of this world that entice those who yearn for them, the brilliant ideas of women are fought every step of the way for their day in the sun, if they're even listened to at all. Belle's works, unfortunately, are no exception. She's regularly brushed off by the managers every time she requests that they so much as look at or listen to one of her songs.

But fuel is only added to the fires of Belle's difficulties as she's forced to not only compete for the management's attention with the operatic composers of the past who haunt her like ghosts with their established renown, but with a modern composer who haunts her present. For all she knows - nor cares - he knows not of her existence, but she's more than familiar of his. His operas have been performed four times in as many years. He oversees each and every one of them, combing over details and punishing anyone he finds to be subpar and vulnerable, like a hawk waiting to snatch up his prey. Those who toil to meet his almost impossible demands consider him a manager in his own right, one to be avoided and feared beyond either of the two actual yielders of the title. But for as utterly charmless as he is to all beneath him, nothing is done to hinder his merciless mission for perfection at any cost. This is because in addition to being the Opera House's rising star, he's also its most generous patron.

So despite Belle's talents with a quill, through no fault of her own, this game of patriarchal superiority and wealth leaves her outmatched to the point of making her naught but an obscurity in the grander scope of the Opera House.

After all, just how can she compete with the likes of Bertrand, the Vicomte de Friper?

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Bertrand de Friper isn't a people person.

His personality is often deemed as "testy" at best, his appearance is rather unconventional, and his ancestry leaves a lot to be desired.

It's a multi-layered problem.

That's not to say that there exist no advantages to being him. After all, what does a Vicomte have if not money, and all the power, influence, and sometimes freedom that money can grant?

An Opera House isn't an easy place to spend one's days when they're not a people person. However, when one's chosen to dedicate their life to creating operas, where else could they go?

Composing operas does something for Bertrand that nothing else finds itself able to do - it gives him something that's all his own. It gives him something clean of his family's influence — apart from the money used to finance it — and a chance at a legacy that might not be as tarnished as it would be without it.

Opera speaks to Bertrand - its blending of performances, sets, design, and musical numbers allows room for complexity. His works aim for that same complexity, as it's a complexity he sees in himself, and because of that, he acts as if it's a mirror of the very person he wishes he could be. And that inspires his every flick of the quill.

He's more hands on than most other composers. Bertrand knows that to be true. In his own defense though, most other composers are no longer around to see their work come to life.

So why should he waste his time as nothing more than a silent creator when he can do so much more to make them as majestic as he knows they could be? He's written and paid for these operas and damnit, he's going to make sure his vision sees the light of day in the exact way he wants it to! And if that means he's gonna sit in on every rehearsal and talk the managers' ears off and nitpick the lighting whenever he finds the slightest flaw, then he'll do it with all the gusto of a late December's snowstorm. And he'll fire anyone who refuses to meet his demands without the backbone to tell him why they can't be so.

But understandably, it also does no good for Bertrand because that work is the closest thing he's got to any manner of a real social life, and that cruelty does little to better himself as something even resembling a people person. And his family is of little help in breeding any genetic social charisma, whether through genetics or renown. His parents are rather cutthroat and it's given them a bit of a reputation that's followed Bertrand socially.

Things have never been easy with his family. They're rich and have a status of nobility, but that status has come from means that were...less than admirable. There are rumors - some true, some not - of deals made under the table with much of the city's criminal underbelly, raises in savings at their bank that line up just too closely with news of a robbery at a bank not two miles down the road, and price gouging at legal firms that the patriarch of the Friper family just happens to own. But money is money. Their titles were granted more out of obligation because of their wealth than any interest in making them part of high society, and it shows to this day. They're often shunned, but never directly - kind of in that indirect way that the upper class tend to do. They'll always be invited to a party, but tables had a way of never having enough space for one of them and invites for other gathering to elude their grasps.

However, Bertrand's parents liked to show that right back in the most passive aggressive and manipulative ways.

...And maybe he did too.

Okay, he definitely did.

And that's why, for all his success in business and art, Bertrand de Friper is not a people person.

()()()()()()()()()()()()

The Paris Opera House is often bustling, but never has it been as bustling than the week following the managers' abruptly announced retirement.

What kind of long-standing managers only give a week's notice before retiring?

Well, they've never been the greatest communicators - that's what Belle's grasped at least over her tenure here - and so now, thanks to their rash decision, the entire Opera House drops everything and scrambles to arrange some sort of send off for them. Madame Lucas has them up early every day practicing to put on a dance from one of their favorite operas. The breaks aren't plentiful and by the end of the day, Belle has to find the strength to eat dinner before she falls asleep. Outside of their space, Belle can hear stringing and tuning of instruments most everywhere she goes and stagehands arguing with each other and gossiping about who's taking over. It's all quite hectic.

Everyone's relieved when the change is finally made and the new managers take up their posts. Those not forced by their positions to socialize with the new management take off for desperately needed breaks and those unfortunate enough to need look like they're in need of a nap as they push themselves towards their new bosses.

The new managers seem okay. Belle's not overly optimistic that this management team will be any more receptive to her ideas than the old ones were, but she'll take a gamble on that in due time. For now, though, it seems like everyone and their mother who holds a higher position than a dancer, a chorus girl, or a stagehand wants to talk to them, so Belle's content waiting.

As a matter of fact, Belle's more than content waiting. In all the business of the past week, she's had to neglect her opera. But now, there's time to work on it, and Belle's not about to waste even a second of her newly recovered free time.

Melodies swim through her mind like guppies in a school. Things have been coming together on one of her final uncompleted pieces so nicely. She almost can't stand how proud she is of her own work.

In her excitement, Belle allows a few bars to escape her lips and movements leave her feet as she casually makes her way back to her room.

But all the while as she lightly sings and moves through her trip, Belle, for the briefest of moments, finds herself unaware of the fact that she's not the only member of her impromptu performance's audience.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Bertrand's not sure what to make of the new managers. They don't seem too different than the old ones, but appearances are nothing but deceiving - though if he's to believe the opinions of most everyone he's ever known, he'd likely believe that to be a lie.

He tries not to believe it himself.

Not one to give himself an air of brown nosing, Bertrand watches the new managers' introductions from afar. While in truth, he'd wanted to wait a few days to further acquaint himself with his latest opera's opening night on the horizon and nagging at him with the force of the sunlight on a hot summer's day, Betrand knows he doesn't have the luxury of delaying his introductions. So as soon as the company at large is dismissed for the day, Bertrand moves past stagehands, chorus girls, and ballet dancers alike as he sets out towards his new coworkers. At the very least, he wishes to find a later time when they can talk further, but he imagines that his status as The Opera House's biggest patron will immediately garner himself the lion's share of their attention.

It's by no means a fun way to spend an afternoon, but Bertrand focuses on how after today, he'll be able to work to further perfect his opera once more.

And that is what's going to get him through the day.

As Bertrand passes through the groups of gossiping men and women, something catches his ear - something that makes him stop dead in his tracks. It's a lone voice, within yet at the same time somehow distant from the crowd of dancers. Bertrand's hearing is strong. It has to be for him to do his job as well as he does, but right now, the talent is being used to hone in on strings of notes and lyrics.

The melody he hears from that voice...Bertrand's utterly captivated by it.

It's exciting.

It's memorable.

But most of all, it's different from everything he's ever heard before.

Bertrand knows how rare compliments like that are. While he's personally been no stranger to them, he's well aware that so few composers in this age of discoveries have but only longed for words even close to them to be directed their way.

And Bertrand himself - by his own admission - is a man of few compliments to spare on a good day.

So for him to describe naught but a scant number of bars and lines in such a way, they are bars and lines that are truly something to behold.

He needs to know where the voice that produces such notes is yesterday.

Bertrand follows his ears like a leaf follows an autumn breeze's path until he's able to latch onto one woman. Her back is turned, but the fact that it's her voice making such music is unmistakable by the way her feet move in time with her bursts of singing.

There's no hesitation in Bertrand - not an oddity, but also not a regularity by any means - as he taps on the woman's shoulder. She practically jumps in her spot, surprised, before turning around to face him.

If Bertrand is to describe his initial impression of the woman who stands before him during those first few seconds before they've exchanged a single word, it would be 'soft.' She seems surprised, but a residual happiness from her music is as clear as day on her face, creating a soft sense of contentment all around her. Soft dark brown curls cascade just below her soft shoulders deprived of nearly all manner of tension. A dress of a soft pink shade - one that matches those worn by the other women of the ballet - covers her form, giving her something of a heavenly air about her. Even as her sky-shaded eyes turn curious and almost dark whilst she takes him in, there's still an unexplained softness to them.

And just like that, before he's even talked to this woman, Bertrand de Friper's absolutely smitten with her.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()

If there's anything that can absolutely ruin Belle's day, it's a reminder that Bertrand de Friper exists.

That said, seeing him appear before her, smiling of all things...is strange.

Belle's been lucky to have never had direct contact with him thus far in her opera career. Most of his critiques towards the ballet have been made through Madame Lucas. Belle, Ruby, and the rest of the ballet have seen many a heated debate between them over choreography, schedules, and positions. Yes, Madame Lucas may answer to him on some level, but he does not by any means control her and she's not at all afraid to stand up for herself. Belle admires that.

Bertrand de Friper, however, is someone that she does not admire.

"Can I help you, Monsieur le Vicomte?" she asks, her tone perfectly even as to not show fear, but also to keep any sass on her end at bay.

Scenarios play in her mind over what brings his attention to her of all people. Was her dancing off during the old manager's send off performance? Is there an issue with her costume?

There's an interesting glint in Bertrand's eyes. He looks almost bewildered by her.

Belle can only hazard a guess at what that could possibly mean.

But if she's honest, she's beyond curious to find out.

"That music - what you were singing and humming to - what was that from?"

Out of all the questions Belle expects him to ask, that's just about the last one on this Earth that she can think of.

She's speechless. There have been times, she'll admit, where she's fantasized about what it would be like to be approached about her opera. Usually, they involve the managers, sometimes, it's a singer, and rarely, it's a director of another Opera House who then takes her to a far off exotic land where she can spend the rest of the days writing masterpieces with all the creative control she could ever ask for.

Never though have a single one of those fantasies involved Bertrand.

...Well, apart from a bit of gloating at him whilst reveling in her success, that is.

Despite preparing speeches and pitches in her mind right before she's gone to sleep every night since she was twelve, she's not sure how to answer now that a similar inquiry's been thrown at her feet by the very last person she would expect it to come from.

It's mostly a fear of a response, she reasons. Apart from the family she's made with the Lucas', most everyone involved in her life has mocked her dream in some way, shape, or form. She has a hard skin for it these days, but laughter still hurts and with the new managers having just started, it could be detrimental to her hopes of her work ever being heard out.

But Bertrand has asked her a question and he's just persnickety enough to bother her to the point of insanity if she lies or tries to dodge it.

Belle takes a sigh and speaks.

"I wrote it," she says carefully. "It's part of an opera I'm writing."

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

An opera.

This woman, a woman whose name he hasn't even learned, is writing an opera.

It's as if God above hasn't already given Bertrand enough of a reason to fall for her.

She truly is a woman after his own heart.

And dammit, she's succeeding in the endeavor.

Bertrand feels himself smile. It's been a while since he's done that for a reason outside of his own success in quite some time. His face crinkles to reflect his bewilderment.

He's simply amazed.

She's written an opera, and by those bits of music he's been blessed enough to hear, it's one that may very well have no rival.

"I can't believe it." An innocent laughter bubbles under his throat. "Th-"

The words he's about to say die on his lips.

Her expression has changed from skeptical to enraged in a single heartbeat.

Crap.

Bertrand's never been the most straightforward man when it comes to communicating his approval of others and their works - a rarity in its own right.

And unfortunately, the meaning behind his words has been once more betrayed as a result of that.

He rushes to elaborate on his intentions, but he's not offered the chance.

"Excuse me!" the woman interrupts, a fire in her speech that matches the flames that burn behind her ice-colored eyes as she all but shouts her protest. "How DARE you imply that it's somehow unbelievable for me to write an opera?" A finger points directly in the direction of Bertrand's nose, unwavering and menacing.

Fear isn't an emotion unfamiliar to Bertrand. He's afraid of many a thing, but never would he have imagined that a pointed finger of all things would halt a mouth he's seldom ever bereft of a voice when one has been wanted.

While Bertrand wants nothing more than to stop this rant before it can continue, the words refuse to come out.

And unfortunately for him, the woman's words are more than happy to compensate for his silence.

"I'll have you know that I've been studying opera since I was five years old! I've worked here for over ten years, read dozens of operatic pieces ranging from Shakespearean adaptations to "Ghiselle," talked with most every person in this Opera House at length about their jobs - probably to the point where I could do any of them upon request - and personally tested out every bit of my opera too many times to count."

"Bu-"

Bertrand's cut off before more than even one more syllable can escape him, only stopping out of fear that his intrusion will only make things worse.

"I am MORE than qualified to write an opera and I won't have yet ANOTHER aristocratic man whose likely worked HALF as hard as me for double the accolades telling me that I can't out of some chauvinistic mindset! So instead of believing those ideals of the past, start believing that I'll be the one selling out this theatre instead of you soon enough. I promise you, I won't be the only person happy to see you overthrown."

The woman then turns away and starts walking in the opposite direction for him.

Bertrand follows her, keeping at somewhat of a distance to prevent bringing her fury to a head once more.

"Please, wait!" he half cries, though only to prevent a scene. "I didn't mean it that way. I-I'm sorry! Your work's good - better than good, great!"

She doesn't seem to spare him a thought as she retreats back to the ballet's quarters. Bertrand stops as she goes beyond where he could respectfully follow.

In an Opera House full of people - even those that don't particularly like him - never has Bertrand felt so alone.

But right before she escapes his vision, Bertrand sees her hesitate. She almost looks like she's about to turn back, like she's accepted his apology and corrections as truth, but she seems to decide against it, walking through and closing the door closest to her.

Bertrand's about to throw respect to the wind and go after her when suddenly, he hears a scream. It's blood curdling and sounds like it's coming from the stage.

Though somewhat reluctant due to the woman now running through his thoughts like a wolf in a forest, Bertrand does go to the stage to investigate. A girl who Bertrand can tell by her costume is part of the chorus lays on the floor. Her foot is crushed underneath and mangled by a sandbag that's at least twenty-five pounds in weight. According to her cries as two stagehands attempt to remove the obtrusive menace, she heard a snap upon the sandbag's contact with her foot. The cries are given evidence by an unnatural appearance her ankle presents as it once more meets the lights of the stage. Whispers emerge with the ankle, and there's an all-to present fear amongst those who've responded to her wails that she may never walk wholly again.

A rope suddenly falls from atop the rafters, clearly one that once held up the sandbag. Most present on the stage not helping the chorus girl look up to the apparent scene of the crime for some semblance of a clue as to what happened. There's no one above there, but light specks of dust fall like snow.

While the 'why' of the matter remains unsolved, the 'who' is as clear as day, for this is not a crime that's new to The Paris Opera House.

Over the past few months, things like this have had a tendency to occur. Sandbags untouched for years as evidenced by the dust they've accumulated have been falling around and now on unsuspecting workers. Costumes have been mangled with scissors practically starving for fabric. Grand set pieces have been made hazards by artificially faulty support beams.

And just as with any dangerous oddity, they find themselves the subject of rumors, and The Paris Opera House has taken all of these incidents and made a demon of their own.

This latest of crimes is the work of the culprit that those in The Opera House have dubbed as "The Phantom of the Opera."

()()()()()()()()()()()

**A/N: Thank you for reading! If you'd like to throw a review my way, I'd appreciate that! If not, that's okay too! But no matter what you do, have a great day!**


End file.
